


Chronicles

by lalejandra



Category: Bandom
Genre: Gen, Transformative Works Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-04
Updated: 2010-03-04
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:25:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: A takeoff of The Chronicles of Avonlea (sort of), using bandom people.I wrote this over the course of two or three days in January 2008. I meant for it to be a lot longer, but I got bored/distracted/irritated, and never kept writing, and now it's too late.





	Chronicles

Spencer counts himself lucky that he lives in a small town. There are a lot of things he hates about it, although whenever he's called on that statement he's hard-pressed to think of things off the top of his head. Once he came up with: The lack of available men. That turned out to be really bad judgment, because when that went around the town's gossip mill, he had nephews and sons and brothers thrown at him.

Apparently the town is pretty gay. And Spencer is a pretty good catch.

A couple of the things he likes about the town include but are not limited to the fact that the local grocer carries his favorite brand of hot chocolate and will, if Spencer asks nicely, order basically anything Spencer wants; there's always a plentiful supply of locally grown and made goods; there are only two bars, and he's the one with the juke box that has more than country and western music, so he's never going to lack for business.

And he knows the guy who does the health inspections, which means that his bar gets to have a cat and everyone looks in the other direction.

The cat's name is Haley. Spencer doesn't remember naming her, but apparently he did. Spencer's pretty sure that despite the nephews and sons and brothers, Haley is about as much action as he's going to ever see, unless he goes into the city and picks up a stranger at a club. (Even though Brendon Urie flirts with him all the time. Spencer knows better than to take a twenty-something music teacher seriously. Because seriously, it's like Brendon doesn't even realize that they live in a tiny little town where any mistake is going to be immediately broadcast to everyone. One one night stand and an improperly hidden exit, and... well, Spencer knows, okay? He didn't exactly have to leave town, but he did blush every time the Reverend Allen looked him in the eye.)

Spencer has no idea how it happens, but Haley ends up pregnant. Well--he knows _how_ it happened, but not how it happened! Haley almost never leaves the bar, and when she does, Spencer always thought it was to hunt. Apparently it _was_ to hunt. Jesus.

Things Spencer really didn't want to know include finding out that his burly bartender Bob has a softer side. He only wanted to sit down and work out the accounts for that week, but Bob was crouched in the corner near the filing cabinet.

Spencer tries to quell his curiosity and completely fails, sighs, and asks the question: "Isn't that your favorite flannel shirt?"

He holds back a grin when Bob flushes a dull red.

"It ripped," Bob rumbles, and stands up. "I thought Haley would like to have it."

Spencer nods, solemn as he can, and doesn't laugh until Bob's fled to the bar, and Spencer can hear him stacking glasses.

It feels like forever, but it's only a couple of weeks until Haley has her kittens. Spencer is relieved when it finally happens, because it is creepy to curl up to her at night and feel the kittens in her belly. Weird and gross, and girls are scary, blah blah blah. He never says shit like that out loud because it makes him sound like he really is scared of girls--but. Seriously. The uterus. Who thought that shit up?

Haley has four kittens, which means Gabe wins the pool for number _and_ date, damn him. Bob names them all, and hovers for the first day. Spencer doesn't even try to get him to come to the bar and actually serve beer and drinks and the disgusting fried food that Spencer has to serve so people won't always be abandoning his bar for Elena's.

Of course Bob loves the runt of the litter the most, and names him Smoooches.

"SmOOOches?" repeats Spencer.

"Yeah." Bob glares a little, but Spencer knows that Bob is a secret softy who loves baby animals, so he just smiles back serenely. "That's the one I'm keeping."

Of course Smoooches dies. He's just too runty, which Spencer could have told Bob if Bob had wanted to know.

"You want the night off?" Spencer asks him, keeping his voice as even as he can.

"Yeah." Bob sounds kind of gruff. More gruff than usual. Gruff in a different way.

Another thing that's nice about living in a small town: Ryan, Spencer's best friend. If Spencer were by himself, he'd probably live in a big city. New York. L.A. Chicago. Maybe Miami, if he were feeling particularly masochistic when picking a living space. But Ryan wouldn't survive in a big city; Spencer's kind of surprised he lasted so long in Summerlin. He lasted just long enough for Spencer to pick another place to go, and then followed, writing his weird novels. They don't really pay enough for him to live, so he writes pop songs too, but would never ever tell anyone. The kids in town sing along to Ryan's words on the radio all the time and never even realize it.

It's nights like the night Smoooches dies when Ryan comes in really handy: Spencer has him follow Bob across town to the cowboy bar (where they only have two kinds of music, Spencer was told by the bartender: country and western. Spencer did not ask the bartender if it hurt to be such a cliché.) on the outskirts of the town. Ryan can write anywhere, so Spencer is pretty sure he just sits in his car while Bob gets shitfaced on Bud Lite.

Spencer gets there before the doctor when Ryan txts him:

Bob fl off mch bull & broke arm brng hlp

Spencer had to leave Frankie, one of the sheriff's deputies, in charge of the bar when he left--and in order to get Frankie to behave himself and take the bar seriously, he had to tell the whole story about Smoooches. When Bob comes in the next day, popping Vicodin and in the worst mood Spencer's ever seen him in, including the one he was in the day after he found out his girlfriend cheated on him and he busted up her car windows, there's a picture of Smoooches, drawn by Frankie's partner, the other deputy, Gerard.

***

Sometimes Brian thinks he's the only fucking adult in the whole fucking town. Or, rather, maybe, he thinks that everyone else thinks that. Like because he's an elected official, he's above the rest of them.

Do they really think he doesn't know about the pool Gabe is running? Gabe's taking odds on whether Brian's gay or straight or asexual, quiet about his affairs or seeing someone in another town. He's even got odds on a theory that Brian is a woman trapped in a man's body and will never hook up with anyone until he can express himself in the way he was made to be expressed.

Brian would bet that theory is Brendon Urie's.

Brian once had to call Gabe and Travie at the fire department to literally get Brendon Urie out of a tree.

He's perfectly willing to let everyone believe that he's asexual -- because what the fuck does he care? -- and so, apparently, are the guys he's slept with. He has good taste, if he does say so himself; Bob Bryar was his last hookup. They lasted for a couple of months--longer than anything else Brian's had--but Bob ended it. Just a few weeks ago, actually. Brian's not sure why, but if Gabe was taking odds, Brian would put his money down on his deputy Frank having something to do with it.

Whatever, they were just casual, although Brian was particular to the way Bob would just hold him down and fuck him.

*

When Jeph Howard rolls into town, though... Brian is pretty sure his heart is on his sleeve for everyone to see, and he has Mikeyway tattoo it there just to make sure.

***

Jepha Howard doesn't like small towns. He grew up in one, where he was trapped until his band got him out. But at the moment Jeph doesn't like to talk about his band, either, because it fell the fuck apart a few months ago. Now he's got some comfortable savings, a 1991 Dodge Dakota pickup truck, shit fucking else.

So he gets into his fucking Dodge Dakota and drives around the country for a couple of weeks, trying to clear his head. Like a quarter-life crisis. It doesn't fucking work, and the pickup breaks down in a tiny little town; the sign on Main Street (literally: Main Street) claims the town has 1,034 residents.

"Whatcha here for?" asks the mechanic, wiping greasy hands onto a greasier rag.

"I've come to die." Jepha lies dramatically onto the hood of the Dakota and hugs it.

"Looks like you've got a while before that happens," replies the mechanic philosophically. She squints at Jeph and the truck. "Truck's almost gone, though; I heard you clear from the other side of town."

Jeph sighs, then sighs again for good measure. "Is there anyplace to stay around here?"

"Well..." The mechanic chews her bottom lip while she thinks. "Jon Walker owns a pretty nice bed and breakfast next door to Spencer's bar. It's a little pricey if you're going to be staying a while, but he'll probably give you a good rate."

"And the truck?" Jepha leans up and kicks the tire. There's a creaking noise; he and the mechanic both hold their breath until it's clear nothing is going to break or fall off or collapse.

"Just holler for me in a couple of days," she says. She's matter of fact about it: "There's probably nothing I can do, but I'll try."

"Who are you?"

She grins, and sticks out her hand. "Jamia."

They shake, and he walks in the direction she points, toward Jon Walker's bed and breakfast. Maybe he'll have tea.

*

Yeah, it's his quarter-life crisis that makes Jeph drive across the country and settle down into a small town like the one he left. After three weeks of sleeping in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room, and eating at the bar next door, and listening to all the small town gossip he fucking hates, he's ready to be on the road again, dirty and smelly, drinking tea and pissing into empty bottles so he doesn't have to stop driving.

"Man, I can't help but notice that you'd rather be anywhere but here," JWalk finally says to him. He passes the joint over, and Jeph is careful not to take in too much smoke. he doesn't want to get _too_ fucked up. just a little fucked up.

"I just hate small towns," Jeph tells him. "It's about Mormons."

"There're no mormons here." JWalk looks contemplative. "Except Urie, one of the music teachers. Guy used to be a mormon. Now he's... not."

"Urie's the one who keeps trying to hook up with the bartender -- Spencer?" asks Jeph. Why does he know this? Ugh, small towns and their insidious gossip.

"Yup." JWalk takes a long, leisurely toke. "Spence is never gonna hit that, though."

Jeph could ask why, but he's determined not to involve himself in the town's weird gossip structure. He already knows too much about Gerard and Lindsey (he's into being fucked and she's into fucking him), Bob the bartender who pines for Frank-the-deputy and Jamia-the-mechanic _both_ (and they pine back for him, but none of them are making the first move), Ryan's epic crush on a Rockette (who writes him fan letters about his little-known literary novels)

He grunts instead of saying anything.

"Mimi Ballard is looking to sell her hardware store." JWalk holds out the joint, and Jeph takes it.

"I don't know anything about hardware."

Jon points down at Jeph's cock with his eyebrow raised. Jepha had made the truly epic mistake of telling JWalk he had a PA, and Jon finds it the most amusing thing in the world, apparently. "I wouldn't know about _that_ ," says Jon, "but a bunch of high school kids work there. If they can figure it out..." Jon trails off, then continues when Jepha grunts, "It's not, you know, like there's gonna be a Lowe's or something moving in to take over your business, not around here. And it'd be something to do."

Jeph grunts again.

*

All the excuses he gives to himself, though, are just that: excuses. Pretty lame ones besides. No one's pointed at him, no one's refused to serve him because of his tattoos or piercings, no one's even asked what the "CHOKE" means. Half the town seems to be gay or in open relationships, and even though they all gossip about each other all the time, Jeph gets the feeling that it's with actual love.

Of course, there's the weird cowboy bar on the other side of town where the undesirables (and sometimes, apparently, bartender Bob) hang out, but Jepha's not really concerned with them, since, even though it would take Jepha and Frank and Urie all put together to equal one of the cowboys who hangs out there, Frank's got a gun.

Jepha's never going to get back what he lost when Branden left and the band fell apart; Jepha cannot keep running from himself, or from life.

Why not own a hardware store? What the fuck else is he going to do?

*

Mimi Ballard is a fucking train robber. She gets away with all of Jeph's savings, and a kiss besides, and then she's off to fucking Florida. Good thing he's getting a really good fucking monthly rate from JWalk (no meals, but his own bathroom), or he'd be SOL.

On the other hand, he doesn't have a mortgage, and he thinks maybe not going into debt is a small price to pay.

"You should head down to Mikeyway's tattoo shop," she advises him with a twinkle in her eye. "He does excellent work." She pulls up the sleeve of her shirt to flash him a decent unicorn tattooed on her bicep, and he finds himself wishing she would stay in town.

*

Jeph has to get one of the high school kids--they are _all_ named _Alex_ , and even though they look nothing alike, he can't tell them apart--to show him how to use the cash register. It's fucking embarrassing.

He keeps Mimi's old hours: eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. Alex #1 (he makes them wear nametags with numbers until he gets to know them, or until they quit; he's not sure which is going to come first) tells him that Mimi just opened up for people who needed stuff. Jeph thinks Alex #1 is pulling his leg, until it's three a.m. on a Sunday morning and someone bangs on his door.

There is serious consideration of just pulling the blankets over his head and going back to sleep, but the banging continues, and JWalk actually has a couple of real customers, tourists visiting small town America. Jeph doesn't understand why anyone would want to do that, but in the spirit of being nice to his landlord, he opens the door.

On the other side is a guy wearing a brown, round-brimmed hat, a full set of flannel pajamas, and a pair of boots. The guy is Jeph's size, no bigger.

"One of Jacky's pipes just burst," he tells Jeph, pushing into the room. "I gotta get a new one for her."

Jeph's in boxers and nothing else, but the guy doesn't even give two glances to the tattoos or Jepha's newly-shaven legs. Jepha sighs, a soul-deep sigh.

"Who are you?" he asks, pulling on jeans. The people in this town seem to sometimes forget that Jepha hasn't been here forever, and doesn't already know everyone, and half of them forget to introduce themselves before they start talking to him about their daughters' weddings and the one time some cousin got a piece of corn stuck up his nose.

"Oh. I'm Brian. Schechter. The--uh--the sheriff."

"That explains the hat," replies Jeph, and is really really thankful to whatever deity is listening that he never takes JWalk up on his offer of a joint for the road. He zips his jeans, and shakes Brian's hand. The sleeve of Brian's pajamas slips for a moment, and Jeph sees bright color swirling over Brian's forearm before Brian tugs it back down and gives him a tight smile.

"I just got back from a--well, I'm sure you don't care. Point of fact is that it's been unusually busy around here lately or I'd've come to welcome you to town myself," says Brian as Jeph tugs on a shirt and shoves his feet into a pair of flip flops.

Jeph cares. Jeph cares a lot. He listens to Brian talk about the law enforcement conference he'd been at, and how while he was gone, his two deputies had somehow gotten into a feud about strippers--of which the town had exactly _one_ , who was _really_ a dancer who liked to be half-naked and not a sex worker at all (Jepha's eyebrows flew up at that one, and he wondered if the town was that naïve or if he was _that_ jaded already)--and he listens to Brian talk about Jacky ("A tough old broad, but it's hard to be by yourself when a pipe bursts.")... Jepha could listen to Brian talk forever, really, but the hardware store is only a few blocks away. Jeph unlocks it and lets Brian walk in first.

"I... uh..." Jeph shoves his hands in his pockets. "I don't know anything about hardware or pipes--" That should not sound so _dirty_. "--so I hope you know what you need."

Brian sighs a sigh that Jepha's heard come out of his own mouth more than ones; it is the sigh of a man to whom everyone comes with their problems all the time. But Brian's grinning when he says, "I fix everything," and his eyes are bright.

Jepha is a goner.

The next day he gives in to Amanda, the music shop owner, and joins the neighborhood watch group, just so he can see Brian at their once a week meetings.

***

No one takes Brendon seriously except elementary school kids. Some of their parents don't even take him seriously, but what is an elementary school music teacher supposed to wear? Brendon has lavender hoodies and pink sparkly sneakers and a tattoo of piano keys up one forearm. Mikeyway does good work. Well. Mikeyway does decent work. Well.

Mikeyway does tattoos, anyway.

So Brendon is pretty used to being brushed off and pushed past. His family brushed him off all the time, until he left. Now they wish he was back, he's sure of it. Well, he wishes they wished he was back. He met Patrick at school and followed Patrick to this tiny little town in nowheresville USA, but at least here no one cares that he's gay, no one tries to make him go to church, and even though there are no vegetarian restaurants, both Jon and Spencer have separate grills for their vegetarian items. Well, Spencer has a separate deep fryer for vegetarian items, so Brendon knows his cheese sticks and french fries have never shared oil with chicken fingers or fish sticks.

It's just that -- sometimes he wishes Spencer -- people. People. He wishes people would take him seriously, and Spencer is a person, so Brendon wishes Spencer would take him seriously. He doesn't know what to do to get people to take him seriously, though. He doesn't want to change. Brendon finally likes who the fuck he is, and he's not going to cut his fucking hair or --

"-- or anything," he finishes lamely. He wishes it was a triumphant "anything" but he does not feel triumphant.

Shane, Brendon's best friend ever, leans across the table and taps Brendon on the hand. "If Spencer doesn't take you seriously --"

"I even thought he was hot when he had that stupid mustache." Brendon's tone is definitely mournful now, maybe even whiny, and he knows it, and he hates it, but beer makes him broody, and Spencer is at the bar, his back turned to Brendon and Shane, and he looks so fucking awesome, with his tight black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders, his hair short again.

"Then you win Spencer-sex-chicken," says Shane exasperatedly. "Maybe if you quit trying to flirt with him and were just yourself when you saw him, he'd like you better. No one likes bad pickup lines."

"They're a joke," Brendon insists, but Shane is right, and they aren't jokes anyway, they can't be, because Spencer is that hot and awesome, and always remembers which beers Brendon likes, and knows that when Brendon orders shots, it's because he's had a bad day, and --

"He's a bartender, Bren. That's his job." Shane taps his fingers again, this time on the table. "Have you ever thought about maybe asking him out?"

"Uh, no." Shane is fucking crazy. "If I asked him out, then he'd have to reject me outright, and what the fuck am I supposed to do then? Never come in here again?" Brendon raises his eyebrows.

 

***

"One of these days," Bob mutters to Spencer, "you're going to have to actually go out with Urie and show him that you're just a fucking person who isn't that hot."

"Shut the fuck up," replies Spencer, and fills another cup of beer for Jamia.

"Why don't you go out with him?" Jamia has grease under her fingernails, grease that Bob cannot stop staring at. He never meets her eyes, but at least he's not staring at her tits like Frank always does.

"Because --"

"Shut up, Bob."

"-- Urie's never asked," finishes Bob. "Sorry, Spence, you know it's true."

"Shut the actual fuck up," replies Spencer.

 

***

Brendon wants to ask Spencer out. They could go to the movies. They could go to the park. They could take a walk. Anything. But he isn't used to being the one doing the asking, and he's been rejected all his life by everyone, practically, and asking Spencer out is like asking to be rejected. That is exactly what it is! Brendon's not an idiot. He knows that guys like Spencer don't usually go for guys like Brendon.

"What do you mean, guys like you?" demands Shane over beers the next afternoon. Sure, it's only four o'clock, but beer after school is a must, especially when Brendon's got to start grading history of music papers tonight. (One day some kid is going to write him an epic paper about classical musical influences on modern rock, but today is not that day.)

"You know. Flamboyant."

Shane rolls his eyes. "Flamboyant is the word people say when they don't want to call someone gay."

"Are you saying I'm not flamboyant?" Brendon plucks at his lavender hoodie.

"No, okay, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that it's not like we don't know whether or not Spencer is gay. We just don't know what kind of guys he goes for."

Behind Brendon, whoever is sitting in the corner booth clears his throat. Brendon turns around and flushes red: it's Ryan, the novelist, who is also Spencer's best friend. Brendon read one of Ryan's novels. It... was written in English. Brendon isn't sure he really understood what the novel was really about, because surely it was not actually about the moon and the sun meeting and falling in love.

"Ugh, shut up," says Brendon, and puts his head down on the table.

"Spencer's type is the kind of guy who would just man up and ask him out," says Ryan in a flat voice. "I'm not encouraging you. I'm just saying."

Brendon can practically hear the grin in Shane's voice when he says, "I told you so."

***

Ryan would totally ask Keltie out if she would leave her life of glamour and glitter, fashion and fame, and come live in this town with him. But he could never ask her to do that -- she has a career. And he could never live in a place like New York. Aside from being unable to function without Spencer, New York is crowded and full of annoying people, just like Vegas. And that is one of the many reasons that Ryan and Spencer left Vegas to begin with. Ryan hated living in the suburbs, but he hates the city more. Small town life is perfect for him.

And Keltie knows that, which is why she hasn't asked him to move to New York for her. They are just going to pine away for each other until Keltie retires. Then they'll be together. The old fashioned romance of it really appeals to Ryan's aesthetic.

*

He writes letters to her. On paper.

Ryan tried to write with a quill and ink once, but it was a complete failure, all blotchy and scratchy and terrible. Now he sticks to ball point pens.

They've also never met in person, but Ryan stalks her on the internet. When she falls during a performance and breaks her leg in three places, he is in a complete tizzy... he can't go to her because no one knows him and they wouldn't let him into the hospital ("Yes, they would, Ryan, she's not that famous," says Spencer, rolling his eyes), and he doesn't even have her phone number because they only write letters!

And, okay, Spencer is right, she isn't that famous, so she's not in the news every day or anything, and Ryan doesn't know how to get in touch with her. Basically he just spends all day sighing and wringing his hands instead of writing anything.

"How can you leave me in my time of need?" he howls when Spencer goes into the city for a day. Spencer's eyes are seriously going to roll the fuck out of his head.

Luckily for Ryan, Spencer is the best friend in the entire world, and when he comes back from the city, he has Keltie and a wheelchair in his truck, and he and Ray the fix it guy install ramps at the bar and at Ryan's house.

"Now shut up and write some songs and make some money so you can pay your heating bill," Spencer orders, but he's grinning.

***

Spencer heard from Ray the fix it guy -- who has the nicest ass in town, male or female, Brendon Urie notwithstanding -- who heard from Jepha who found out from Brian that Frank and Jamia are together, but are keeping it quiet. When he mentions this to Bob, Bob grits out, "They're married," and Spencer drops a glass.

"But -- she flirts with you!"

"She flirts with everyone." Bob turns his back and doesn't even go get the broom and dustpan for Spencer like a good employee would. Spencer has to get them himself.

Once he's cleaned up the glass, he pours two shots of Jack.

"Bob," he says, still trying to figure out how to say this. "Jamia doesn't flirt with anyone except you and Frank. And Frank doesn't flirt with anyone but you and Gerard. Do you know the math of this?"

Bob takes his shot of Jack, slams it back, and then slams the shot glass down onto the bar. "I think you're wrong."

"I think I am so right."

"If I--" Bob stops and shakes his head.

Spencer points silently to the picture of Smoooches that hangs behind the bar in a super nice frame. The nicest one that was in the drugstore, anyway.

"I am totally right. You should..." Spencer stops. "I don't know what you should do. Maybe they have some kind of Bob clause?"

"No one has a Bob clause." Bob bites his lip, and chews on his lip ring.

"You're a jackass." Spencer takes another shot of Jack. The bar doesn't open for a couple of hours; he has plenty of time to sober up.

"If I..." Bob shakes his head. "Spence, you're wrong."

"Want me to talk to Jamia?" Spencer offers. He doesn't want to be in the middle, BUT.

"Do not even fucking think about it, Smith."

"I'll bet you for it."

"Bet me?"

"If you start flirting back, I'll --" Spencer totally doesn't know what to say, but Bob interrupts him anyway.

"You'll start flirting with Urie." It's not even a question, it's a statement.

"I'll --" Spencer's mouth is dry. One more shot of Jack never killed anyone.

Bob looks grim, like he's going to his own execution. "You'll put me and the rest of this town out of our fucking misery and give Urie a chance."

Spencer swallows the Jack, and takes a long breath.

"I'll start flirting with Urie," he agrees.

***

The story Bob heard about how Frank and Jamia got married went like this:

"There was this whole conversation about, like, avoiding expectations? And subverting the patriarchy? And then I was like, hey, we should just get married and not tell anyone, and then when anyone asks, we can be like, what the fuck, we don't care about that shit, it's just a piece of paper, not permission to love each other. And Frank was like, that is a totally awesome idea. Except because he's Frank, he was like, yeah, whatever, James, and I was like, fuck you, and he was like, no no, I meant--I meant that is a totally awesome idea, and I was like, fuck you, and he was like, fuck _you_ , and the next day we went and had Mayor McLynn marry us."

Jamia had one arm stretched across the bar, and her head down on it, and she wasn't looking at Bob. She was looking at the juke box, the one Spencer eventually had moved into Mikeyway's tattoo shop because Spencer was sick of Mikeyway coming into the bar and playing "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want" while staring at Ray the fix it man. Bob was ostensibly washing a glass, but was really staring at the grease under Jamia's fingernails.

She wasn't wearing her coveralls, but she still smelled like engine oil. Bob had never been turned on by engine oil or the smell of it in his life before he met Jamia.

"I'm cutting you off," Bob told her. He put down the glass, and cleared her six shot glasses away. She'd insisted on drinking them one after the other, like people apparently did in some movie that Bob had never seen and didn't feel like he was missing. "Drink some water."

He plunked a glass down and filled it with tap water, pulled the giant bottle of aspirin from under the bar and shook out three for her, and then went to the other end of the bar for the coffee. Spencer usually drank most of it himself, but it was only eight o'clock in the evening; Spencer could make more and there's no way he'd begrudge a cup to a drunk and maudlin Jamia.

When he got back to Jamia she'd drank all the water, and was chewing the aspirin. "They do this in movies too," she said to him, her mouth a chalky white, "and I have no idea why because this tastes disgusting."

"You're supposed to swallow them." Bob pushed the mug of black coffee across the bar to her. She slumped a little on the stool but doesn't look like she was going to fall over.

"Don't tell anyone that Frank and I are married, okay?" she asked.

"Drink the coffee," he replied shortly, and turned away.

"No, seriously. Bob. Seriously. We didn't even tell our parents. Seriously. Like, please?"

Bob sighed and turned back around to look at her. She was leaning against the bar again, her breasts squished up against the worn wood, accentuating her truly stupendous cleavage. Her eyes were wide, and clear, not the cloudy eyes of someone who'd just had a shitload of shots hit them.

"Jamia, I won't tell anyone anything." He stood with his legs spread, holding himself up through sheer force of will. He refused to ask any of the questions that were on the tip of his tongue--like, why do you flirt with me if you're married to Frank? Why does Frank flirt with me if he's married to you? If getting married was really so unimportant as all that, why did you fucking do it? Why are you fucking with me?

Fuck, shit, motherfucker. Goddamnit.

*

Making that stupid deal with Spencer was stupid. Stupid deals are stupid. Bob is stupider than a fucking lolcat. He doesn't know _how_ to flirt, or what he's doing, or what he's supposed to say. When Jamia leans against the bar and drawls, "Another drink, cowboy," and winks at him, he doesn't _want_ to look at her cleavage or wink back. He wants to put her fingers in his mouth and suck on them, or run his teeth over the freckles on her face. He'd settle for having the stones to look her in the eye, actually, because in reality Bob fucking Bryar is a fucking--

Well, he'd call himself a pussy, but most of the girls he knows have got more guts than he does.

So he refills Jamia's Blue Moon and stares at her fingers and ignores Spencer's pointed glare.

***

Okay, Jepha wouldn't swear to it, but he's pretty sure that Sheriff Brian has been flirting with him. There've been casual touches. There've been long glances, eyes meeting across the conference room during neighborhood watch meetings. There've been--well, that's pretty much it, but Jepha can read between the lines. Usually.

Jeph doesn't know what it is about this town, but he hasn't gone this long without sex since he lost his virginity, so it's very possible that his judgment is being impeded by blue balls.

"I've decided." Jeph flops down into the chair next to JWalk, and plucks a beer from the ever-present cooler. Jeph has no idea how JWalk keeps the bed and breakfast running; he never seems to do any work. Almost every time Jeph's seen him, Jon's been sitting on the front porch of the bed and breakfast in his rocking chair, watching the street and the door to Spencer's bar. Sometimes Jon's on the roof. Sometimes he's not drinking beer; sometimes he's smoking weed.

"Yeah? Finally," says JWalk. He takes a long draught of beer, his eyes never leaving the door of Spencer's bar.

"Yeah? Whatever, man."

"Whatever," replies Jon absently.

"Who're you looking for?"

Now the expression on Jon's face changes: it becomes cagey. Jepha almost doesn't recognize the expression, because he's never seen it on Jon's face before. "No one," says Jon, and, oh, that's why Jeph's never seen that expression on Jon's face. Because Jon is a shitty liar.

"Sure," says Jeph agreeably.

"There's a girl," confesses JWalk immediately. Jepha grins to himself and swigs beer. "She goes into the bar every Monday and Wednesday at sundown."

"And her name?" prompts Jepha.

"I dunno. But I will eventually."

"If you stare at her long enough."

"Right." Jon finishes his bottle and puts it down, reaches blindly for another. The caps are already popped off; Jon's settled in for the night, facing east, away from the magical fucking sunset that Jepha doesn't think he's ever going to get used to.

"The next time I see the sheriff, I'll just go up to him," Jepha tells JWalk. "I'm just gonna go up to him and I'm gonna say... I don't even care if it's in the bar in front of everyone, I'm gonna--"

"You won't see him in the bar." Jon turns his head from Girl Watch and looks at Jepha, clearly puzzled. "He's an alcoholic, he doesn't go into the bar."

Jepha slumps back into his chair. "Huh." He goes over the patrons of the bar in his head, and realizes something else: "What about Gerard? I've never seen him in the bar either."

"Yeah, Gerard too. He and Brian saved each other's lives. There was a whole thing with cocaine, too, but no one's really sure what happened. We all..." Jon pauses when someone walks toward the bar, but it's not his girl, apparently, because he keeps going before she's even close enough for Jeph to see that it's Jamia. "We all sort of didn't ask? I know you think we're all gossipy idiots sometimes, but we just... you know, Gerard had a thing..." Here Jon waves a hand in the air like Jeph is gonna know what he means. "And then Brian had a thing too..." The hand wave again. "And--"

"And everyone voted Brian in for sheriff again?" Jepha sounds appalled despite himself. He'd vote for Brian, if there was voting, but... this isn't the kind of small town he's used to. This isn't Utah, he reminds himself for the thirty-millionth time. "I mean--"

"Brian's a really good sheriff. We hardly have any crime anymore, you know? People are better to each other when he's in charge. He's, like, really motivating." Here Jon turns his head and stares at Jepha, a little too knowingly. "You'd know, right?"

"What do you mean?" Jepha knows he sounds completely unconvincing.

"The next time you see Brian, you're just going to walk up to him..." JWalk quotes.

"And--" Jepha turns away and drinks all his beer. "I never used to be this fucking _shy_."

"Yeah, well, how long's it been since you've lived somewhere where you have to see someone all the time even if you fuck things up with them?" Jon points out. Except...

"Not very fucking long," Jepha admits. "I used to be in a band. If you fuck things up with someone you're on tour with..."

"Yeah, I was in a band when I was a teenager. We played Warped a few times. In a _van_. We--shit, there she is!" JWalk leans forward, then sits back, sucks air through his teeth, then exhales noisily. Jepha's, okay, only known him for a couple of months, but has _never_ seen him be this animated before.

Jepha looks from him to the slim, dark-haired girl walking toward Spencer's, and stands up. "Hey!" he calls out. He points to Jon. "My friend likes you. Seriously, this isn't some middle school prank."

The girl stands in front of the bar, an uncertain look on her face.

"No, seriously," says Jeph. He tongues one of his piercings, and then falls back. "His name's Jon. Come talk to him, have a beer."

Then he turns, catching a hysterical glimpse of Jon's gaping face on his way indoors. Haha.

And, fuck it, the next time he sees Brian, he's just going to be like, "Hey, I'm a kinky motherfucker and I want you to hold me down by my throat and fuck me. Do you even do guys?"

***

It's not that Spencer isn't interested in Brendon. It's that Spencer really does know better than to take him serious. Urie gets up to all kinds of antics all the time--Spencer very clearly recalls the day that he jumped from the roof of the bar into the branches of the tree that sits between the bar and JWalk's bed and breakfast. Spencer called the sheriff's office. They called the fire department. Brendon came down held carefully in Travie's arms, and cradled in Brendon's arms was Haley.

Okay, so that was an antic that turned out all right. Spencer likes Haley a lot, and he wouldn't want her to be stuck up in a tree. But--what kind of guy climbs a building to jump into a tree to rescue a cat?

Brendon does. And the more Spencer thinks about reasons why he doesn't want to take Brendon seriously, the more he realizes that Brendon is actually kind of cool.

"You want me to pass him a note during lunch today? Do you like Spencer _for real_ , check yes or no," Bob deadpans. Spencer kicks him under the table.

"I'm eating the last cheese stick," says Spencer, and then he does. He wipes his hands carefully before going back to counting the money. Sure money is always dirty, but there's no reason to get it dirtier.

He counts out Bob's weekly pay from the stack of bills and pushes it across the table, where Bob is still counting the change. One of the kids from the other side of town paid all in pennies, just to be an asshole. Bob'd had to count the pennies the first time, and offered to do it again. The pennies were in stacks of ten, grouped into clouds of ten stacks each.

"It's just... remember what happened with--you know." Spencer lifts one shoulder and lets it drop again. "I can't have that happen again. I have to _live_ here."

"Man, if you go out with Urie even once, every single person in town is going to know about it. The first night you fuck him, there's gonna be a _parade._ " Bob pushes another ten stacks of ten into a group.

"Maybe I want him to fuck me," Spencer snaps back.

Bob snorts.

"Seriously," Spencer insists. "It's been a really long time. Maybe--"

"Sure." Stack of ten. Stack of ten. Stack of ten.

All right, maybe Spencer had thought about Brendon's ass a couple of times, but there's no way anyone looks at Brendon's ass without thinking about fucking it, Spencer doesn't care what anyone's got between their legs.

"Do you know if he's ever dated anyone in town?"

Bob raises his eyebrows, but doesn't look up. Spencer taps his fingers on the money while he waits for Bob to answer. Bob looks exhausted; maybe it's time for Spencer to think about getting another bartender.

"He dated one of the girls who used to dance at the other bar." That's how they always referred to the bar across town where the cowboys went: The _other_ bar. "It was either Dusty or Katie Kay. I can't tell the difference."

"Scared of giiirls," taunts Spencer.

"Scared of girls who can kick my ass, fuck yeah." Bob looks up. His eyes are all red and puffy. "I wonder how Urie got _her_."

"Did they actually get together or--oh my _god_ ," groans Spencer. He thumps his head down on the rough wood of the table. "I can't believe this is my life, interrogating my employee about a customer. What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"You haven't been laid in _four years._ " Bob pushes another cloud of stacks to the side, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He offers one to Spencer, and lights it for him. They blow smoke at each other for a couple of seconds. Then Bob says, "Not to be all chick flick about this, dude, but you know... maybe if you just talked to him, like, outside the bar? Like took him to dinner at Elena's or something... Maybe you guys just need to hold hands."

Spencer snorfles. That is the only word for it. He snorfles, chokes on a lungful of smoke, and ends up with Bob pounding his back and his eyes streaming.

"I think maybe," Spencer says when he gets his breath back, "that you just want to hold hands with Frank and Jamia."

Bob stops grinning pretty fucking quick at that, and goes back to counting the fucking pennies.

Hold hands with Brendon Urie in-fucking-deed. Hold him down, make him sit still, make him choke on Spencer's cock maybe. Hold hands? That's a little outrageous.

  



End file.
